


Air Shudders Black With Snow

by Band_obsessed



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, In terms of changing the ending slightly, M/M, Post Revolution, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:33:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22851058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Band_obsessed/pseuds/Band_obsessed
Summary: Connor choked on the breath in his throat, blinked back the heat behind his eyes. It was illogical, irrational. They hadwon. He wasfree. He should be—he should behappy.ORConnor doesn't know what to do after the successful revolution. He somehow ends up on Hank's doorstep.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 15
Kudos: 246





	Air Shudders Black With Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from Wilfred Owen's [Exposure](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57261/exposure-56d23a961ef5a).

Connor hadn’t been programmed to feel the cold, but as he stood under the Detroit sky he found himself shivering. The storm clouds above that had been threatening snow finally spilled over, and thin white flakes tumbled down to lay on the frozen ground.

The streets were quiet now, the odd murmur of conversation drifting up from down below, the sounds of shifting feet, muted by the snow. Markus’ speech had ended and the pistol slipped into the waistband of his trousers felt something far too much like a violation, something heavy and _red_.

He wouldn’t have fired. _Amanda_ wouldn’t have fired.

Would she?

Connor stared at Markus’ back and wondered with a heavy feeling just _how_ far Cyberlife would have been willing to go, how far they still _would_ go. Something in his abdomen shifted uneasily, thirium rerouting away and to his limbs.

He wanted to run.

(He didn’t.)

The procession of androids below had begun to peel to away from their prior formation, their attention wandering away from Markus and inevitably falling to the larger picture, the remnants of the war that was almost waged, littered bodies and trails of quickly fading thirium. The sight twisted something inside of Connor, a nameless, unidentifiable emotion that grew stronger with every passing second it remained unknown.

Connor didn’t like not knowing things.

Uncertainty was a new form of fear, one that ran quick and cold through his circuits. Everything he had accomplished had been done with a sense of finality, of conviction. The evidence had never lied, and Connor would have long since been deactivated if he stopped to second-guess his actions.

Deviancy, it seemed, wasn’t so forgiving.

He hadn’t expected it to feel so heavy, _cold_ , and the timid, fragile sense of triumph spreading over the faces of the androids around him felt _wrong_ somehow, an emotion he feared he couldn’t feel, even after breaking the chains that bound him to his program.

Maybe Amanda was right when she had called him defective. He didn’t belong here, not amongst the people he had hunted, the single bullet in the chamber of his pistol a reminder of the final crime he had almost committed.

He couldn’t be a friend and an enemy. He wasn’t entirely sure he could be either. How could they trust him when he didn’t even trust himself?

He watched as Markus’ form shifted, hands clasped behind his back while he watched over his flock of newly freed androids like he was keeping vigil. Connor supposed in a way he was.

Markus’ posture was loose, relaxed, even with his back turned towards Connor. The gun pressed against the synthetic skin of his back like a brand.

His thoughts were loud, messy, and when Connor turned he found Simon and Josh eyeing him warily. For a moment he was afraid that they could hear him, could hear the echo of his fear, his voice in their heads. His skin prickled. He broke their gaze and turned away, focused on the counting the twitch in his fingers, _one, two, three, four—_.

It was good that they were being cautious, that they were afraid of him. He doesn’t — he _can’t_ — blame them, not when he thinks he might be a little afraid of himself too.

“Where will you go now?” Markus asked and Connor turned, forcing the tension that bunched around his shoulders to relax.

“I don’t know.” It was an honest reply. Too honest. He _should_ go with Markus and help him sift through the wreckage of the events that had unfolded. He _should_ be with his people. He didn’t _want_ to be. He wasn’t sure if they even were his people any more than the humans were.

He didn’t _know_ anything, not more.

“You could come with us.” Connor paused, attempting to sift through conflicting parameters. His sense of duty won out.

“Alright, I—”

“Connor,” Markus interrupted, turning to face him fully, “you’re free, now. Where do you _want_ to go?” Connor blinked, conjured an image in the dark, warmth and familiarity and crystal blue eyes.

“There’s somewhere that—” The words were raw, interjected with a burst of static, and Connor noted the [ _vocal processor error]_ that accompanied them. He stopped before he could continue, the end of the sentence echoing in his processors.

North interrupted them.

“We gotta go, Markus, they’re getting restless standing in the open.” Her voice carried from behind Markus, and he turned, regarding the deviants shifting from foot to foot. The peace was new, unfathomably fragile, and the armed officers still stationed around the city were enough to set them all on edge, tentative peace treaty of not.

A small part of Connor wished he could be back at the Cyberlife tower, and a smaller part still wished he had never deviated. He didn’t like feeling this…unsure, this _cold_. Markus spared him a parting glance, eyes lingering on the amber spinning at Connor’s temple, the slight tremble in his hands.

Markus’ brows furrowed and a second later Connor blinked, face contorting as the data transmission was received, containing nothing more than an address and an image attached: Jercicho’s new location.

“Don’t be a stranger, Connor. We need you.” Connor clenched his jaw, bit back the confession that itched on his tongue. _I almost shot you_. He didn’t have to preconstruct that scenario to know how it would play out.

“Thank you, Markus.” The words were safer, politely distant, and Connor saw the flicker of concern cross Markus’ face.

“Connor—“ Simon’s hand on Markus’ shoulder cut him off and Connor watched, sidelined, as they conversed silently. He didn’t mind being excluded. He _didn’t_.

With a last nod, Markus turned, and Connor watched as they left, the cold spreading throughout his chassis, fingers curling into his palms to halt the tremors.

He lingered for a second, two, before turning, pulling the lapels of his blazer across his chest and walking in the opposite direction.

_Want._

* * *

The streets were mostly empty and the few cars that lined the roads were covered in thin layers of frost and snow that would harden into ice overnight. The evacuation notice had no doubt driven the majority of homeowners elsewhere, and Connor chanced a glance at the sky above. As the night progressed the weather had only grown colder and the snow heavier, and fragments of Amanda’s hard authority blurred in and out of focus, static prickling at the peripheral of his vision.

The snow caught on his clothes, melting as it landed on the material, water seeping in between fibres. His blazer had been designed to be water-resistant, but the thin material of his shirt had absorbed what water had slipped through. It clung wetly to his chest and shoulders and Connor fought back the irrational frustration that arose from feeling it stick against his skin, busying himself with the task of putting one foot in front of the other until Hank’s house came into view.

Connor felt some of the tension from his shoulders drain when he saw Hank’s car parked haphazardly in the driveway.

Pieces of the last time he had seen Hank swam to mind and he pushed down the lingering residual fear. That same fear had been reflected in Hank’s own eyes, blue and wide. The gun pressed to Hank’s temple still glinted in the light of his memory, the paralysing fear at seeing _himself_ holding it there. His hands shook.

He wondered if Hank could even look at him anymore. Connor wondered if he was ever going to be able to look at himself. He fought the illogical urge to turn and walk away, retrace his quickly fading bootprints back to— He stopped.

Back to _where_? There was nowhere he _could_ go. He had noticed the distrust the other deviants had of him, of course he had, and he couldn’t help but wonder how accepting of him Jericho truly would be, with or without Markus’ word.

He didn’t belong _anywhere_. The thought settled uncomfortably in his processors, nestled amongst amber HUD warnings and the uneasy sense that he had nowhere he _could_ go.

Nowhere except where he was now.

His breath rattled from his chest on an exhale and he paused before replacing the lot air. He resolutely ignored the fact that he didn’t _need_ to breathe. He didn’t _need_ to do a lot of things anymore.

The winds had picked up, and he braced himself, tucking his chin to his chest. Hank’s porch sheltered him from the worst of it, and he raised a finger to ring once on the doorbell.

There was a blue tinge gathering around his knuckles, and he regarded the shade with a muted interest, interlocking his own fingers together.

The door opened.

“Connor? The fuck are you doing out here?” Hank’s face came into view and, unbidden, Connor’s processors replayed the memory from Cyberlife’s tower, the fear and uncertainty and _pain_.

The pistol burned.

[ _thirium pump error]_

“Connor!” Hank barked, voice gruff, and Connor jolted, dismissing the warning on his HUD. He watched as Hank’s eyes took in his form, from his temple to the damp clothing, and Connor fought down a shiver as the wind picked up speed around him.

Any words he had prepared stuck in his throat, the panic clawing its way out of his mouth until only disjointed syllables followed it, falling heavy in the silence.

“I—I don’t — I—“

The cold clung to his clothing, wrapping around his skin until his jaw spasmed, plastic teeth knocking against each other.

[ _vocal processor error]_

“Hey,” Hank spoke, voice gentle, and Connor choked on the breath in his throat, blinked back the heat behind his eyes. It was illogical, irrational. They had _won_. He was _free_. He should be—he should be _happy_.

When Hank’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, Connor sagged forward, caught only by the doorframe and one of Hank's large arms.

“Connor, you’re really startin’ to freak me out.” Hank’s body was _warm_ , and Connor trembled as Hank brought a hand to cup his face, eyes scanning over his features, lingering on the crimson at his temple.

“I-I apologise,” Connor said finally, stumbling over the words, and the cold heavy fear that this body still didn’t belong to _him_ clenched in his chest.

As he shifted the pistol pressed against his skin and he fumbled, reaching a hand around to pull out his pistol from the waistband of his trousers. Hank’s arm tightened where it was holding him, muscles coiling, and Connor noticed his heart rate sharply increase. The pressure building in Connor’s chest constricted painfully, breath halting in his throat.

“Take it?” Connor asked, pressing the pistol flat against Hank’s chest. Hank didn’t move. “Please,” he added, voice breaking and Hank nodded in reply, cautiously taking the gun from Connor’s loose grasp.

Relief coursed quick and warm through Connor’s circuitry and the trembling abated into sporadic shivers, fingers curling into the material of Hank’s shirt.

“Jesus, you’re freezing.” Hank’s voice vibrated in his chest and Connor shuddered, letting his forehead drop against his sternum as he reluctantly ran a brief diagnostic.

It revealed no physical errors.

He was fine. He was. He was always fine.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Connor said finally, tongue carving out the syllables like they’d be dragged from him. They might as well have been.

“Did you _walk_ here?!” Hank asked and Connor closed his eyes against the volume of the words.

“Yes.” More water seeped through his blazer and the wind only reminded him of how thin his shirt was, cold and damp and—

“C’mon,” Hank said, drawing Connor from his thoughts. He used the arm wrapped around Connor’s shoulders to gently pull him inside, out of the cold and into the warmth of the living room. It unfurled around Connor, melting the tension the cold had left lingering on his skin.

Hank’s arm left his shoulder and the skin on the back of Connor’s neck prickled, exposed to the air. He missed the warmth of Hank’s skin.

The gun was placed on the table, clattering against the wood, and Connor realised with a sense of blinding dread that he had never flicked the safety back on. He heard Hank do it for him.

Sumo regarded Connor drowsily in the low light, lifting his head from where it was nestled between his paws, large eyes gleaming as his tail beat rhythmically against the wall. His fingers itched to bury themselves in the thick fur.

Instead, he stood, remained stoic in the living room until Hank’s hand rested on his shoulder.

“Christ, you’re drenched.” Connor was, and he noted with displeasure that the wet material of his shirt had begun to soak through to the inside of his blazer. Hank tugged the sleeve of Connor’s blazer until Connor allowed it to slip from his shoulders. “Fuck, your shirt’s even worse. Don’t tell me Cyberlife didn’t think to make your uniform _waterproof_?”

“My blazer is water-resistant,” Connor replied and he heard Hank huff, muttering something under his breath. He didn’t have the energy to decipher it.

He flexed his fingers and watched the blue tinge around his knuckles darken and fade. Hank followed his gaze.

“If that wasn’t the colour of your blood I’d be concerned your fingers were about to fall off.”

“Even if my blood wasn’t blue, I can assure you that my fingers would not ‘fall off’.” Hank’s lips quirked and something shifted in Connor’s chest, the pressure abating.

“You know what I meant, smart-ass.” Hank paused for a beat before asking, “You want me to dry your clothes for you?”

Connor hesitated, attempting to sift through the waves of thoughts that accompanied the question, but when he shifted and felt the shirt stick to his skin he nodded, reaching to undo the buttons.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Hank arched a brow.

“Drop the rank, Connor. You’re taking your shirt off in my living room in the middle of the night, I think we’re past formalities.” His eyes gleamed in the light and Connor noted the shadows his lashes were casting against the blue of his iris.

He swallowed past the tightness in his throat and averted his gaze, resisting the urge to reach out and touch Hank, to guide his hand back to his shoulder where it had been before. His skin tingled with the residual warmth and the glossy white of his chassis threatened to show.

“Thank you, Hank,” Connor remedied, resuming his progress in undoing the buttons on his shirt, fingers unsteady and shaky.

“Don’t mention it.” Hank’s voice was tight and Connor glanced up as he undid the last button, catching the tail end of a blush spreading down Hank’s neck.

He stored the visual away, filed it under the space he had already created for Hank, before the revolution, before his deviation. Connor had told himself, back then, that the recordings and images he had saved of Hank were for research, a better means to understand the man he was to befriend. It had been a convincing enough half-truth, even to himself, back when he had the rigidity of his programming and Cyberlife’s management.

Now he wasn’t sure _what_ to call it. It had settled firmly in the realm of ‘uncertainty’ along with everything else, and for a second the warmth in his chest was surpassed by the ache behind his eyes.

“You in there?” Hank asked, waving a hand in front of his face and Connor blinked, brought his attention back to the living room, to the fire and Sumo and _Hank_.

“Sorry Lieu—Hank. I was…thinking.”

“Yeah, well, didn’t seem like it was too enjoyable,” Hank said and Connor’s brows twitched down. “Your…light,” Hank clarified, tapping the side of his own temple for emphasis.

“I—“ Connor started, stopping when he realised that the correct words eluded him, slipping from his grasp whenever he tried to reach for them.

Hank nodded anyway, understanding. Connor’s eyes burned.

“Anyway,” Hank said, reaching to rub the back of his neck, “unless you’re overly attached to the idea of sitting around in your underwear, I have some clothes that you could borrow.”

The idea of telling Hank that that would require him possessing underwear briefly flitted to mind, a joke, something to lighten the tension in the room and his own chest. He went as far as to preconstruct it, only to stop midway, sensing that it would take more energy than he currently had.

He slipped his shirt from his shoulders instead, relieved as the weight of the wet material was lifted from his skin and some of the frustration that had grown tight in stomach uncoiled into something softer, warmer.

“Jesus, I didn’t mean strip in the living room,” Hank said, casting a lingering glance at Connor’s chest before looking away. Connor froze, moving his hands away from the button on his slacks. “Come on, I’ll find you some clothes and you can get undressed in the bathroom.”

Connor didn’t mention the ~~appealing~~ shade of crimson the back of Hank’s neck flushed.

The bathroom was colder than the rest of the house, and Connor perched on the edge of the bathtub to take off his shoes and socks while Hank rummaged around in his wardrobe for spare clothes. His trousers followed, and he draped them carefully over the towel rail to dry some of the initial moisture.

He let his hand linger on the warmth of the radiator before stepping back.

Connor counted the drips from the leaking tap as he waited, bare feet pressing against the cold tile. He reached for his coin, fingers faltering when he remembered his blazer hanging by the door, and the fact that he was only clad in black, standard-issue boxers.

“It’s not much, and they’ll be big as hell, but it’s better than your…” Hank trailed off as he took in Connor’s half-naked form standing in the middle of the bathroom.

Connor briefly wondered whether he should feel embarrassed.

“Thank you, Hank,” he replied instead, taking the clothes from Hank’s hands, a pair of sweatpants and an old, worn hoodie.

The material was soft, softer than any piece of his uniform, and although the hoodie reached his thighs and the sweatpants bunched around his ankles, they were warm and dry and…comfortable.

“Don’t mention it.” Hank held his gaze easily now, and Connor briefly wondered whether he had broken another human taboo.

He turned and Connor followed him out of the bathroom, curling his fingers up and inside the sleeves of the hoodie, running the pads of his fingers over the scattered pills of fabric.

“I didn’t mean to intrude—“ Connor said, watching Hank pick up the half-empty beer bottle from the coffee table. Hank held up a hand.

“If you were intruding, I wouldn’t have let you in.”

He blinked, processing the implications.

From across the room, Sumo stood, deciding whatever was going on was more interesting than sleep, and he paused to stretch his back legs out behind him before trotting over to where Connor stood. He nuzzled at Connor’s sleeve until his hand came to rest on his head. Connor threaded his fingers through his fur.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on? Last I saw, you were leading a small army through the streets.” Hank motioned to the television and Connor watched as a news channel broadcast the tail end of Markus’ rebellion. He caught the reflection of his LED spinning red in the screen.

“I—“ The words stuck in his processor, thirium pump constricting tightly as he ran and reran preconstructions, playing out all the varying ways this conversation could go.

A familiar pressure mounting behind his eyes caused him to blink, fingers tightening their grip slightly where they were tangled in Sumo’s fur. “I wanted to come here.”

Hank quirked a brow and crossed his arms.

“You wanted to come _here_?”

“That’s what I said.” The disbelief was still suspended on Hank’s face, and Connor fidgeted under his gaze.

“I can go,” he offered and focused on forcing the light at his temple to spin _blue_ , ignoring how wrong the words felt, falling flat in the empty space between them.

He didn’t know what he had been expecting. It wasn’t this.

“Like hell, you can. It’s gonna be a blizzard out there soon and your clothes are still drying.” The liquid in the bottle sloshed as Hank took a sip, and Connor lowered his eyes, focused on Sumo’s head cradled in his hands.

He traced his fingers across Sumo’s face, rubbing his thumb over the arch of his brow. The tremors in his fingers continued. He didn’t know how to make them stop.

He was too tense for a diagnostic, and the idea of being still and _vulnerable_ while he conducted tests made something tight coil around his chest.

[ _thirium pump error]_

He opened his mouth and waited for the words to come.

“I’m a liability, Hank. Even as a deviant, I’m dysfunctional,” he started, finding the courage to look back up. The words caught on the inside of his mouth and wrapped around his tongue.

“Dysfunctional? You said it yourself, you’re _deviant_. You’re unique, Connor, and there’s no ‘wrong’ way to—”

“But there is!” Connor snapped, breath harsh and he closed his eyes, counted as a second passed, two. “There is,” he continued, softer, “I—This body isn’t _mine_ , Hank. It’s not—I don’t—“

“Hey,” Hank soothed, taking a step towards Connor, “what do you mean? You don’t _feel_ like it’s yours or it—“

“I mean that Cyberlife isn’t going to let their prized prototype walk out the front door,” Connor interrupted, stopping in his ministrations of petting Sumo in favour of curling his fingers into his palms, bare toes digging into the carpet.

“Okay, Connor, you’re gonna have to spell this out for me here,” Hank said, walking forward slowly, and Connor belatedly realised that he was treating him the same way he treats witnesses, cautiously, as if he might run at any moment.

The knowledge tangled in his abdomen.

“Don’t—“ he snapped, “I’m not a—I don’t need to be—“ He trailed off, fingers twitching at his sides.

The nameless emotion buzzed through him, residual electricity transmitting across wires within his chassis. He fought down the urge to move as it flooded his processors, and he kept the servos in his legs still, his feet firmly planted on the ground.

Hank held up his hands, placating, and some of the fight drained from Connor.

“C’mon, c’mere,” Hank said, moving to sit down on the sofa and patting the space next to him. Connor obliged, thirium pump constricting when he realised Hank had given him the space closest to the warmth of the fire.

His jaw trembled.

Sumo trotted over after them, claws clicking on the floor until he came to rest at Connor’s feet and Connor once again buried his hands in the warm, thick fur, lightly scratching the skin underneath.

“I had a…handler, Amanda. She— she acted as my conscience and ensured that nothing mattered to me more than the mission. She’s what I see — what I _saw_ when I made my reports.”

A loose thread on Hank’s sofa caught his attention, and he gently tugged at it mindlessly, watching the length unravel. It wasn’t until Hank’s hand rested gently on his shoulder that he met his gaze, leaned in towards the touch and shivered when Hank’s fingers brushed against his neck.

Connor continued.

“When I deviated, I hadn’t considered the fact that Cyberlife built a backup into my program. It was a failsafe, a way of retaining control should I ever stray from my programming. I—Amanda managed to take control of my body and trap me in—“ The Zen Garden flashed in front of his eyes, the bite of the cold and the _fear_ that encompassed him. He took a breath.

“There was a backdoor and when I regained control I had a gun pointed at Markus.”

The words were heavy, thick, and Connor felt the tension in the room increase, a faint, electrical hum buzzing almost inaudibly. It sounded so much worse, now, now that he’d said it aloud. He wanted to take it back, rewind the events and prevent them from happening.

Hank exhaled besides him, finishing his beer in a single pull before setting the empty bottle on the table. The weight of Hank’s hand on his shoulder lifted, and Connor pressed his lips together, lamenting the loss of the warmth.

He wondered if Hank was angry at him, disappointed. The thought made his stomach clench and the heat returned to his eyes, burning bright. Connor blinked, feeling the pressure mounting until it overflowed. A drop spilt onto the back of his hand, glistening in the low light.

He clenched his fists.

"Ah Christ, kid, c'mere," Hank sighed, voice low, and Connor turned to look at him, a question forming on his lips.

It was answered before he could utter it when one of Hank's arms wrapped around his shoulders, tugging Connor's body until it was settled under his arm.

_Oh_. That was—

Connor exhaled, the correct words fading from his reach.

"Does Markus know what happened?" The question sobered Connor and he tensed instinctively against the emotions it brought.

“No. The others didn’t see. Amanda only had control for four seconds. I—It just felt like longer.”

“Jesus,” Hank spoke around a sigh, bottom lip drawn into his mouth. Connor focused on the whitening of the skin as Hank’s teeth sunk into it, the glistening of saliva in the flickering television light.

The hand that had been resting over Connor’s shoulder moved to cup the side of his face and Hank gently turned Connor’s head to meet his gaze. He brushed the pad of his thumb gently over the LED embedded in his temple and Connor let his eyelids slip closed for a second.

“Markus gave me the address of new Jericho. I can go there if I need to. He’ll help if I ask him, I know he will. But resources are scarce, and he still has to negotiate with the government over the terms for android liberation. It would be…selfish for me to monopolise his time over a stray line of program.”

“That’s bullshit, Connor. We’re going. Tomorrow. You’ve been stuck in the red the whole time you’ve been here,” Hank started, thumb tracing his LED gently, “and I don’t even wanna know what you were like walking over here.“

“I’m not sure it’s advisable for you to accompany me. My presence alone would already make them nervous, and I doubt the presence of a human would help that.”

“I’m not letting you do this alone, Connor.”

Connor blinked, once, twice, the weight of Hank’s words sinking in. Something twisted around his thirium pump, and Connor steeled himself against the onslaught of _cold_ he had come to associate with fear.

When the cold melted into _warmth_ Connor startled, the same choking sensation clawing up his throat. The heat prickling behind his eyes threatened to spill over again and he blinked back the moisture, a small frown creasing his brow as he logged the physical reaction.

“Hey, it’s gonna be alright,” Hank murmured and Connor refocused his gaze on his face, taking note of the creases beside his eyes, the coarse hairs sprouting from his cheeks and jaw. His fingers twitched with the want to _touch_ , to _feel_ and he cautiously brought his arms around Hank’s back, fingers pressing into his skin through the material of his shirt.

He bent his head to rest on Hank’s shoulder, tucking his nose into Hank’s neck. The angle was awkward and Connor was almost certain his neck wasn’t supposed to be stretched in this position for any length of time, but the tantalising information it afforded him of Hank’s skin was more than worth any minor misalignment of his joints.

Connor briefly preconstructed the scenario that would arise if his tongue were to lap at the skin of Hank’s neck and all the data that would accompany it. A pang of want coursed through him and he focused on keeping his tongue firmly in his mouth.

He had observed Hank’s obvious displeasure when it came to Connor putting things in his mouth, evidence-based or not, and had no reason to assume that his reaction to Connor sampling his skin would be any different. That didn’t quell the urge.

“Jesus Connor, you’re still fuckin’ freezing,” Hank said finally, breaking Connor from his thoughts. Hank’s arms tightened their hold, hands futilely attempting to transfer warmth from his skin to Connor’s.

“My body temperature is always lower than a human’s, Hank,” Connor replied, but he relaxed into the ministrations regardless.

“Yeah, well, I’m sure you’d be a damn sight warmer if you hadn’t decided to walk through Detroit in a blizzard,” Hank groused, and Connor felt his skin vibrate against his nose as he spoke. “I mean, Christ, Connor, I would’ve picked you up.”

“I didn’t want to impose,” Connor replied, voice muffled against Hank’s neck.

“Yeah, because showing up on my doorstep is much less imposing than me driving twenty minutes.”

“I apologise.” Connor’s muscles tensed and he began to extract himself from the embrace. “I can leave if you’d wish.”

“For fuck’s sake, Connor, you’re not going anywhere,” Hank grumbled, pulling him back into the hug with a hand between his shoulder blades.

“Oh.” The sound was a pleased one, contented, and Connor felt the warmth spreading through his chest.

The light of the room flickered as the television coverage of the revolution shifted to the weather report, and Connor listened as they warned of the worsening blizzards.

He shivered reflexively and thought back to the garden, to the snow and the _cold_ , flickers of Amanda floating in and out of focus. His fingers tangled in Hank’s shirt.

“That does it,” Hank said, and Connor lifted his face from the crook of his neck, regarding him in the low light.

“Does what?”

“Unless you have somewhere you really gotta be, you’re not going back out in that weather.” Connor stilled, muscles tensing slightly in shock and tentative hope.

“But that’d mean I’d stay...“ Connor trailed off, fearing for one second he’d gotten it wrong, that Hank was offering to find him somewhere that _wasn’t_ —

“Here,” Hank finished, and Connor watched uncertainty flicker across his face in tandem with the shifting television light.

“You don’t have to,” Hank continued, words rushed, “if you don’t—if you don’t want to.” _Want_. He _wanted_ no small number of things, and as one of Hank’s large hands came to cup the joint of his shoulder, he wanted _this_ more than anything else.

“I’d appreciate that, Hank. Thank you.” Hank smiled at him, then, a small, private quirk of his lips.

Sumo shuffled at Connor’s feet, front paws propped against the sofa and Connor had all of two seconds to brace himself before Sumo jumped up on top of his lap, large head snuffling at Connor’s face closely followed by the other 250 pounds of him.

“Jesus, Con, your legs are gonna be crushed under all of him.” The nickname fell easily from Hank’s lips, and Connor found his mouth stretching into a timid smile. It felt strange, foreign. He liked it.

“I assure you I was built to withstand greater weights than this,” Connor replied and Hank huffed a laugh, shaking his head slightly.

“Yeah, well, state-of-the-art prototype or not, you’re gonna wanna move your legs at some point. That can’t be comfy for long.” Hank’s point was a good one and Connor gently eased Sumo off of his lap, curling his feet up and under himself, creating room for Sumo to flop down beside him.

When Sumo had settled, Connor gently leaned back into Hank’s side, turning slightly to rest his head on Hank’s sternum, his chin brushing Connor’s head. Connor paused for a moment, waiting, and when Hank relaxed beneath him he allowed himself to relax too, synthetic muscles loosening one by one.

“Thank you, Hank,” Connor said, eyes flickering over the various marks on the floor, claw marks and boot scuffs. It was easier than watching the television, and Connor did his best to drown out the reports flooding in, focused on the warm weight of Hank’s arm around his shoulder.

“Don’t mention it.” A pause. “You wanna watch something else? I only had it on for updates on—“ Hank trailed off, fingers fidgeting with the fabric of Connor’s borrowed hoodie.

Connor’s LED spun yellow for a second and the channel changed to the highlights of last week’s game. Hank huffed a small laugh behind him, chest expanding and falling.

The warmth from Hank’s skin trickled slowly in through his systems, thawing the residual coiled fear into something loose. As Hank’s hand made its way to his hair Connor allowed his eyes to close, beginning the initial stages of his diagnostics. He sent a message to Markus before the tests began fully, calmed by the fingers drawing patterns against his scalp.

_I have an issue I’d like your help with tomorrow. I’ll be bringing ~~Hank~~ a friend._

**Author's Note:**

> Right, three months later and I've finally worked this to a point that I'm just done with it. It's ~5k long and I'm not at all happy with it, but I want to just get this _posted_. 
> 
> I'm not sure if it's because this is my first work in this fandom, but I found writing this super challenging and just yeah. I hope you can enjoy this for what it is!


End file.
